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BOOK 2 : PSYCHEDELIA |
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One morning, Pam Courson breezed into the Conspiracy. Restless and thin,
"I’m looking for something special. I’m Pam, Jim Morrison’s woman," she announced speedily, as if she were Alice in Wonderland’s white rabbit and had only a moment to spare. "Cool," I responded slowly, watching her tense, impatient search through the racks. "I’ve been wanting to meet you." Spinning off, she danced through the store like a nervous colt, calling over her shoulder, "I need a special dress, something really wild." "You can wear wild, but let me show you elegant," I said even more slowly, wishing I were a magnet that could make her stop her clockwork spinning. Despite her hyper cool, she seemed vulnerable, even childlike. I wanted to enhance that quality rather than hide it with flashy, sexy styles, so I took her into my cutting room and showed her the dress I’d just made for Peter Fonda’s movie, The Trip. "It’s an original. I made the pattern myself," I said, handing her the silver dress. "See, this neckline scarf drapes in the front or in the back, or over your head like a hood. It’s three styles in one. The movie won’t be out for months. You can be the first to show it off." As she slipped it over her head, she was transformed. Her tender little girl’s face peered seductively out of the silver hood and the dress enhanced her slender body, revealing soft curves. "This is primo, absolutely wild. Jim’ll love this." As she preened in front of the mirror, I showed her my line of stretch pants, tops, and jump suits. Grooving now, she tried them all on, seeing herself in a new light, watching her beauty come alive. "I’d love to have a store and do what you’re doing," she enthused. "It’s so creative. You’re designing fantasies, making dreams come true. That’s what I want to do. We need to hang out. I want you to make all my clothes." After Pam left, I laughed with pleasure. I loved turning people on, helping them see themselves in another way, creating costumes for their dreams. I took Love’s dimpled hands and swung her around, lifting her into the air as she squealed with delight. Catching her, I hugged her fragrant, sweet softness, breathing in love. A few days later, Pam invited me over to her Laurel Canyon house. When I admired her California garden bungalow, she made a face. "I hate this place. We’re never left alone. I want to move," she complained bitterly. I poured my jewelry on the table. "Look! These will be great with the silver dress," I enthused, trying to swing her off her bad trip. The door opened and Jim Morrison lounged on the threshold, a black leather shadow against the light from the garden. He sauntered in, holding a brown paper bag in one hand. Silent and moody, his handsome face was hidden behind unshaven stubble and altered by half-closed eyes. With an indulgent grin that shifted easily into a seductive sneer, he threw himself down in a chair and lifted his lizard skin boots onto the coffee table. Taking a bottle of Scotch out of the bag, he twisted it open and guzzled a long drink. Pam walked over and took the bottle out of his hands. "It’s early Jim, please be cool," she pleaded. Jim winked at me and turned on the television, losing himself in an old black and white movie. Pam took me into her bedroom. After she closed the door, she said, "I need you to make something special for me. I have a secret even Jim doesn’t know about." Coming closer, she whispered in my ear, "I dance at a topless club in Westwood during the lunch hour. I make good money and it’s mine to spend on clothes and makeup and jewelry, and I get to dance. I always imagine Jim might walk in and see me. It turns me on." "Look," she said as she pulled a G-string out of a stuffed animal. "This is what I’ve been wearing, but it’s boring. I want something fluffier, sexier, more suggestive. Can you do it?" I nodded incredulously while she put on the G-string. "I almost got caught once, and was that a turn-on, but I tore it off, acting all hot to make love and distracted him," she giggled, admiring her reflection in the mirror. Then moving to her own tune, breasts rolling, reddish-brown hair flying, she beat a rhythmic undulation with her hips. "It’s the way I get even for all his running around," she added, a fierce look taking over her beautiful face. Trying to stay cool, I took measurements. Pam took off the G-string and dressed, and we talked about fashions for a while. When I passed through the living room when it was time to go home, Jim didn’t look up. He was glued to the television, slugging down liquor, lost in his river of pain. The next time Pam dropped into the Conspiracy, she asked me to come over for lunch the next day. When I walked down the path to the house, the door was open and I walked in on a raging fight. Tears pouring down her face, Pam was pounding on Jim’s chest, screaming about some woman who’d called to tell Pam she’d slept with Jim. I stood still for a moment, not knowing whether to leave or wait. "I told her it didn’t mean anything. I asked her if you’d bought her a Porsche. That shut her up. I told her you’d sleep with anyone, but I’m the one you come home to, if you can call this a home. I want a stereo. I can’t even listen to your music. The other guys in the Doors have homes and children and stereos. We have nothing." Jim didn’t answer or defend himself or make her any promises. He held her close, humming and crooning in her ear as he softly embraced her. The next minute they were kissing passionately. I slipped by them and went outside. As I wandered in the garden, I picked a bouquet of flowers, thinking it might cheer them up. A few minutes later, when I was sure the fight was over, I walked back in and offered them the flowers. Jim’s face lit up, and gesturing majestically, he cried like a street seller, "Flowers for the gods. Dionysius rejoices!" Pam laughed like a delighted little girl as Jim crowned her burnished hair with delicate ferns. In loving response, she playfully tucked blossoms behind his ears. Glad to see them happy again, I bowed my head as they both wove leaves and posies through my long black hair. Continuing the game with a lightheartedness that eclipsed his self-destructive side, Jim raised his right hand high and chanted, "A Love-In feast celebrating the sacrifice of the Lizard King..." Eyes widening in fear, Pamela interrupted him and begged, "Don’t say that. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself." They looked like they were about to start arguing, so I jumped in. "Hey, Jim, I love your song, Light My Fire. Your music usually scares me, but that song turns me on," I said. His interest piqued, he turned to me with his full attention. "My music scares you, huh? Why?" "I’m afraid of darkness. I see darkness all around and I don’t want to lose myself in it. I want to go toward the light." "How are you gonna to do that without breaking free?" he asked, laughing at me like I was being childish. "I don’t know. I don’t think about breaking free. I see everyone trying to break free all around me, but I don’t like the way they’re doing it. The only thing I know for sure is that I have a feeling that tells me to go toward the light. I don’t want to be part of this dark world." "What other world is there?" he said as he rose from his chair. "The world inside me. I want to make it real. I know I’m searching for something, a path, and a teacher to show me the way. I’m searching for love. I may have to leave my body behind in this world, but I feel there is another world, a finer world, a world of spirit…." Gesturing wildly as he paced the room, Jim interrupted me. "The City of Angels is the City of Night. You’re an L.A. woman. You’re out there on the Strip, night after night, with all the happening people coming into your store, offering a million temptations. I accept everything that comes. I want it all and hate it all. I take it all so I can go beyond it. What’s your trip?" "My trip? Well that’s simple. I don’t take drugs. I don’t drink and I don’t sleep around. Those things don’t make me feel good. I’d rather be high on something that makes me feel good, like my children. Their love lets me know there’s something greater. I never found love with a man, so I give my love to my children and my work." Jim and Pam looked at me as if I was crazy. "How can babies make you high? They’re crying and needing all your time and attention," Pam said in disbelief. "I don’t want babies. I wouldn’t be able to do anything." Jim grumbled, "Love’s a lie. Love’s selfish. We only love people when they give us what we want. Love is pain. Everyone leaves. You have to do what you can to lessen the pain." Pam looked like she was going to cry. I searched for words to dispel his dark vision. "All the stuff that turns you on, turns me off," was the only thing I could think of saying. "No wonder I never see you out there," Jim said, grinning like a madman. "You’re into enterprise." I wanted to leave but when Jim shifted to a music mode, I was enchanted again. He picked up his guitar, and slouched back in a chair, strumming and reciting Rimbaud’s poetry, raving about Dionysius and the Greek myths, singing and explaining his songs. I figured Rimbaud, the wild young French poet, had a lot to do with Jim’s "killer on the road" complex. I remembered a line from one of Rimbaud’s poems, "a long, boundless and systematic disordering of the senses." It seemed Jim was trying on that line for size. For sure, Jim had a unique brand of courage. He plumbed the shadow lands like a snake exploring the depths of darkness. Maybe he had eyes that could see in the dark, but I didn’t. I was afraid of indulgence, afraid to let all the rules go, afraid to sink into alcohol, drugs, and sex. Not only was I afraid, but I couldn’t see what people got out of it. Seeing Jim on the verge of disintegration reminded me of Taz. There was no way I wanted to belike either of them. Instead, I bore the pain of my loneliness and my despair, paring down my desires until there was only the desire for love. Jim Morrison was a rock star pushing the edges of life. I loved his music and so did the millions of fans that idolized him, but would any of them want to live his life if they knew how much he was suffering? A few weeks later, Pam called in the middle of the night and asked for help. She was disoriented, almost incoherent. High on drugs and alcohol, she alternated between outbursts of rage and desperate tears. "Some creep just called me. Jim’s gone over the edge. He vomited and passed out. They want me to pick him up in Hollywood," she cried hysterically. "Please, please. I need someone to help me, someone I can trust." A short while later, she screeched her Porsche to a halt outside my studio. When I went outside to get in the car, Pam was a wild woman. Yelling, swearing, crying, praying, tears running down her face, she sped wildly to a grimy West Hollywood motel. Slamming on the brakes in the parking lot, Pam leaned on the horn, angry as hell. "I’m not going in there with his groupies and his phony friends," she spat out furiously. "They can bring him out." A doped, longhaired freak stumbled out of a motel room and leaned over the balcony. "Bring Jim out!" she screamed at him. A few minutes later, two stoned deadbeats dragged an unconscious Jim Morrison down the stairs. I moved to the back seat of the Porsche as they folded Jim into the passenger seat, filling the car with the bittersweet smell of vomit. Gagging, I held my hand to my nose and opened the window. Jim was dead drunk. Pam was hysterical. I kept talking, trying to calm her down. I wanted to help. I just didn’t know what to do. "You fuckers, you’re killing him," she screamed at them as she peeled out. "Pam, slow down. Cool it. Take it easy," I said. "It’s going to be okay. We’ll get him home and put him in a bath and bring him around." It was tough dragging him into the house. He was dead-weight heavy. Finally, he lay on the living room floor, totally out, virtually comatose. "Do you think we should call a doctor?" I asked. "No, no. Jim can’t take any more bad publicity. They’ll be swarming all over him. We have to bring him around," she sobbed. "I’ll make some coffee," I said and went into the kitchen. I heard Pam pleading with him, "Wake up, Jim. Please, wake up." As Pam slapped Jim’s face and poured water over his head, he started coming out of it, mumbling, "My friend, the end," while he was groaning, and thrashing about on the floor. After I’d made the coffee, I pulled off his boots while Pamela removed his shirt. Together, one of us on each leg, we pulled off his lizard skin pants. We dragged him into the bathroom. Sputtering, spitting, making faces, he resisted the coffee we held to his lips. Lifting him, dragging him, begging him, we finally managed to get him, naked as a babe, into the tub. Pam was crying her heart out like a lost little girl. Her love, her hero, was receding from her in ever-ebbing waves. She knelt on the floor beside the tub. "Jim, please come to your senses," she begged. Suddenly Jim opened his eyes, looked at us, and spoke slowly and calmly, "I am in my senses. That’s why I’m trying to get out of them." Then his head fell and he was gone again. Stunned, I realized he was doing all this on purpose. This was his way of checking out of his mind. We pulled him out of the bath and dragged him into bed. Pam curled up beside him, her arms around him, whimpering, and whispering his name. After turning out the light, I slipped out the door. |
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